


my witness then be earth and sky

by handwrittenhello



Series: quick fic [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (canon from episode 2), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Blood Magic, Curses, Episode: s01e03 Betrayer Moon, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Whump, but it stands on its own as is, possible future chapters to be added, you know those moments when magic users explode from emotions? yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Instead of going to Aedirn, Yennefer is sent to Kerack, but discovers that the king has a more nefarious plan in mind--he arranges for her to marry his son, Jaskier, and bind her magic to him, no matter that neither of them want it.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, implied future Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer
Series: quick fic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197908
Comments: 45
Kudos: 123
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #02





	my witness then be earth and sky

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in 48 hours for the witcher quickfic challenge (if you want to join, we have a discord!)
> 
> title comes from robert fitzgerald's translation of the odyssey.

Yennefer strode into the ballroom, elegant and confident, mind set on only one thing: winning the spot at Aedirn’s court. Fuck the Brotherhood, and fuck everyone who would stand in her way. She was untouchable, floating above the rest.

King Virfuril caught her eye, dressed in a spotless white doublet. She took a deep breath and glided her way over to him, intent on a dance—surely once he saw her, all thoughts of taking on another sorceress would flee his mind.

She was so intent on her prey, she didn’t even notice the man approaching her until it was too late—he took her by the waist and spun her in a circle, finishing with a low dip.

Despite the way she wanted to hex him for his insolence, she knew that making the right impression was absolutely crucial. She smiled her most winsome smile, full of sparkling teeth and demure eyes. “My lord,” she simpered.

“May I have this dance?” he purred, and Yennefer had to bite herself back from a scathing _you already do, apparently._

“I would be honored,” she said instead, and they fell into a waltz. As they danced, Yennefer threw discreet glances over at Virfuril, who was dancing with Fringilla. She barely managed to keep from narrowing her eyes in distaste.

Her distraction didn’t go unnoticed—her dancing partner lifted a finger to her chin, and she reluctantly allowed him to turn her head back to him.

“Surely Aedirn’s king can’t have caught your eye already?” he mused.

“Of course not, my lord,” she demurred. “My apologies.”

He chuckled. “Kerack would be glad to have you, you know,” he whispered. “Such a pretty little thing.”

Her lip curled in disgust, but she forced it into a smile at the last second. _Anything was better than Nilfgaard,_ she reminded herself. “And I would be honored to serve the court.”

They danced some more, and despite the way he looked at her, he managed to keep his hands to himself, for which she counted her blessings. She excused herself after a bit, and Sabrina replaced her. The king—who had eventually introduced himself as King Stjepan of Kerack—looked less than pleased.

Yennefer made her way over to Tissaia, who, in spite of her impassive expression, she could tell was deeply troubled. _Good._ See her try to make Yennefer go to Nilfgaard now.

“Rectoress,” she greeted coldly.

“Yennefer. Seems King Stjepan has taken quite a liking to you,” Tissaia commented.

“Yes, well, it seems King Fergus will have some competition, then.”

“Apparently so,” Tissaia replied, and excused herself to confer with Artorius Vigo. Yennefer smirked.

She sipped at a goblet of wine, waiting for the current dance to end so that she could make her move on Virfuril. The music swelled to a close, and before she could take more than a step in his direction, there Stjepan was, holding out his hand in invitation. She bit the inside of her cheek and took it.

They danced, and twirled, and whirled, until the evening came to a close. The dancing ended, and assignments were handed out—Fringilla went to Aedirn, no surprises there—and Yennefer held her breath in anticipation. She would take any assignment, even frigid Kaedwen, over a Nilfgaard position.

“And to assist King Stjepan Pankratz at the court of Kerack—Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Tissaia announced, and Yennefer allowed herself to smile as she made her way to his side. Not the outcome she had hoped for—but one she would take, all the same.

At the end of the night, he helped her into a carriage, ever the gentleman, and she allowed herself to hope. Hope that she would be recognized and respected, hope that she would grow powerful, even at the side of a ruler of such a small country, hope that she could finally become someone.

* * *

Kerack, unfortunately, turned out to be _utter shite._ It rained more than not, the people were unbelievably stuffy, and Stjepan had her doing nothing more exciting than cleaning up his political messes. There was no power, no legacy, to be had here.

She began to wander the halls of the palace at night, desperate for _something—_ entertainment, an escape, she didn’t know what, but she knew she needed a change.

She was on one such walk when she heard it—Stjepan, in his office, speaking to his son in hushed tones. He had been away at Oxenfurt for some years, and she had never met him, but apparently he had come home recently.

“—Julian, once you marry the witch, you’ll gain power heretofore unknown to the Pankratzes. The wedding will be within the week…”

Yennefer stumbled back from the door, heart pounding. _Marry the witch._ Was that all she was to him? She knew, obviously, that he thought little of her powers, but this? This was a new level of insulting, if he thought he could marry her off to anyone.

She marched back to her quarters as quickly as she dared, fingers itching to start setting things on fire, but knowing that a discreet exit was her best bet.

She threw the doors open and started packing her bags haphazardly. A quick exit, for sure, and perhaps she would steal a horse on the way out. She was so caught up in her plans that she only realized she had neglected to lock the door behind her until it was too late. Strong hands closed around her mouth and wrists, snapping dimeritium shackles on mere moments later.

She fought, of course, but the dimeritium was rapidly sapping her strength, along with all of her Chaos.

The soldiers held her in place as her struggles grew weaker and weaker, until she sagged completely in their hold, on the verge of passing out. Black spots swam in her vision, the whole world tilting as they dragged her out of her room, down endless hallways and staircases, all the way to the dungeons.

They threw her in a cell with nary a word, the lock sliding heavily into place with a deafening _thunk._ She lay on the stone floor, panting with the effort to keep her nausea at bay.

It was some time before she was able to pull herself up to sitting, propping herself against the wall and cradling her spinning head in her hands. They’d warned the students at Aretuza to avoid dimeritium, of course, but never had she thought it would feel like _this._

She focused on her breathing, in, out, in out, and while the awful feeling never went away, she did grow accustomed to it.

Her nerves settled, though her mind was still awhirl with thoughts. How had she not seen this coming? Stjepan was no fool, it was true, but to hide this from her? Even in his thoughts, which she had deigned to skim from time to time, she had caught not a trace of his plan.

And, looking at the dimeritium shackles, she realized that her chances of getting out of this were slim to none. But was his plan really to keep her powers locked up forever? Surely he knew that he would face her wrath should she ever be freed, but then, what was the point of a magicless sorceress? She would be little more than decoration at the side of the prince.

And, even worse, when they found out that she was unable to bear children? The disgrace would be unimaginable, and she would take the blame and wrath that followed. She gritted her teeth. She would die before she let anything of the sort happen.

Hours passed, and though she couldn’t see outside, she knew that it must be nearing morning, now. She heard the door to the dungeons screech open, followed by rapid footsteps and chatter.

“—really, can’t we talk this out? Marek? Isolde? You know me, come on, please! Don’t—don’t leave me here!” The door of the cell next to her clanged shut, and as the guards retreated, the man they had thrown inside sighed.

“Bollocks,” he said, kicking idly at the door. Every hit he landed, the metal echoing loudly against the stone walls, only made her head throb more, until finally she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Will you stop that?” she demanded. “You’re more likely to break your foot than anything else.”

“Oh! Hello!” he said brightly, and she heard the rustling of cloth as he presumably came closer to their shared wall. “I wasn’t aware I had a fellow prisoner down here. Jaskier, at your service.”

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said sarcastically, leaning her head back against the shared wall. She imagined him doing the same, two prisoners in the same situation.

Although it wasn’t like he was about to be married off like a prized sow, was he.

“What are you in for, then?” he asked lightly. “No wait, don’t tell me, I want to guess.”

She snorted. “You won’t guess.”

“Try me! I have all the time in the world, apparently,” he said, with a touch of bitterness. “Let’s see… I don’t think it would be as mundane as sleeping with the wrong person, would it?”

She said nothing.

“Right, er, how about… tried to rob the royal treasury?”

She smiled, but remained silent, entertained by him despite herself.

“Oh, come on, you have to at least tell me if I’m right or wrong.”

“Wrong.”

“Ah. Shame, that one sounds particularly exciting. Alright, then… are you a spy, here to steal all our secrets in the night?”

“No. Feeling paranoid, are we?” she asked, unsure if he was aware he’d said _our._

“Not at all—I would have admired your service to your country, that’s all,” he said grandiosely. “Is it…” he trailed off, and she abruptly became sad at the thought that he was trying so hard to win her favor, without even knowing her, without even _seeing_ her.

“I’m to be married,” she spat, as acidly as she felt.

“Well, that’s certainly not the tone of a happy bride-to-be,” he joked, but it fell flat.

“This whole thing is just—this entire _fucking_ affair, hiring a court mage, pretending to be interested in my talents— _in me—_ only to lock me away like this, bound to a man I hate for the rest of his pitiful life, forever a slave to the throne. I—” she cut herself off before her voice could do something as embarrassing as break.

Silence reigned in the wake of her outburst, as she tried to keep her tears of anger, of outrage, at bay.

“I’m sorry,” he said lamely, and she snorted.

“Is it your fault? No? Then don’t offer your useless apologies,” she bit out. He was silent, and she worried that she’d spoken too harshly.

She didn’t know what to say, then, didn’t know how to apologize for lashing out at the one who had only tried to offer her comfort in a trying time for them both.

The only sound was his breathing on the other side of the wall, too quick, hitching occasionally. Oh gods—had she made him _cry?_

“I’m sorry,” she echoed.

“No, it’s—it’s not you,” he replied, voice wet, then sniffed and chuckled. “What a pair we are, huh?”

She smiled. “What a pair.”

Then, interrupting the tender moment they’d almost had, came another ear-shattering screech of the dungeon door opening. _Who now?_ she thought, annoyed. They’d be imprisoning the entire kingdom at this rate.

There was no sound of a struggle, though, only one pair of measured footsteps, accompanied by the faint jingling of someone well-laden with jewelry. Stjepan.

He came to a stop in front of her cell, and she pushed herself to her feet, defiant, just in time. “ _Release me,”_ she hissed, wishing she could summon her Chaos for effect, but relying on the deathly glare she knew she possessed meanwhile.

“That’s not how this works, my dear. Now listen closely—we’ve arranged for the wedding to happen tomorrow, and you will behave,” he threatened. “There will be another mage there, and should you try anything, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your immortal life buried so deep that nobody will hear your screams. Do you understand?”

“I’d like to see you try,” she snarled. “You had better start running now, because once I’m free—”

“You’ll never be free again. Don’t you get it? _I own you.”_

She lunged at the door, seeing red, only for Stjepan to turn around indifferently and stroll away, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She gritted her teeth so hard she could swear she heard one crack.

The door screeched shut again, and she sat down heavily on the floor, what little energy she had gathered spent.

Against her will, she felt her eyes slipping shut in exhaustion. The dimeritium, combined with her outburst, had sapped her completely. She wanted to do something, anything other than wasting her last night away—but she was powerless to fight the all-encompassing pull of unconsciousness. She slipped away between one breath and the next.

* * *

The next morning—the morning of the wedding—dawned bright and clear; she didn’t know how long she’d slept for, only knew that she awoke to her cell door opening. Two guards rushed in before she could more than push herself up, yanking her to her feet and dragging her summarily out of the dungeon. She struggled, of course, but was powerless as they hauled her all the way to her old rooms.

There was a man there, standing in front of her bed, arms crossed behind him. Even though the dimeritium dulled her senses, she was still able to sense the Chaos rolling off him in waves. This man was a powerful magic user—but he wasn’t dressed in the robes the members of the Brotherhood favored. A rogue sorcerer.

“You may remove the shackles now,” he said, waving a hand boredly. “I can control her from here. And send in the handmaidens.”

The guards complied, and she was glad to be free of the horrendous dimeritium—instantly, she could feel her powers rushing back to her. She summoned everything she could—could feel it fizzing in her veins like lightning—but when she thrust out a hand to _obliterate them,_ nothing happened.

It was like a bottle of sparkling wine, all shaken up, but with nowhere to go. The sorcerer was blocking her Chaos, something she hadn’t even known was possible.

Never taking no for an answer, she instead lunged for him, but barely got within five feet before he froze her in place. “Nice try, darling,” he drawled, but Yennefer was gratified to see a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. He wasn’t as unaffected as he would’ve liked to appear.

Still controlling her body, he spun her around and sat her down in the chair in front of the vanity, a mockery of wedding ritual. The handmaidens bustled in moments later, arms laden with jewelry, finery, cosmetics—what an insult.

She couldn’t even blink of her own free will, seething on the inside with nowhere to direct her ire. Her body went through the motions on its own, allowing itself to be prettied and primped and pampered, until she stood in the middle of the room, clad in a monstrosity of white, a wreath of ivy set upon her head—for fidelity and eternal life, she knew, and scoffed at the meaning. Could they make it any more gauche?

The sorcerer puppeted her out of her room, then, all the way down to the gardens, from where she heard a multitude of voices overlapping. The guests had already arrived. The sorcerer had her linger at the entrance until they quieted, and as the musicians struck their cue, she glided down the aisle, towards where Stjepan waited with whom she assumed was his son. He looked nervous, fiddling with the cuffs of his elaborately tailored doublet.

As she walked, she took in as much of the scene as she could while still unable to control anything. The gardens had been elaborately decorated for the occasion—lights hung absolutely everywhere, magical in nature, and every plant was in bloom, even those out of season. Stjepan had asked quite a bit of the sorcerer, apparently.

It boded well for her—if she could find a notch in his concentration anywhere, with it spread so thin, she could break free of his control.

Her body took its position on the altar, staring up at the prince—Julian, she recalled Stjepan saying. He was infuriatingly handsome, she noticed, thought that only made it easier to hate him. Stupid spoiled brat, always getting anything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter. Gods, but she hated nobles.

The music drew to a close, and the sorcerer took his position at the head of the altar, between her and the prince. He began reading the rites, binding them together in soul and in spirit, in body and in mind, until death did them part. All the usual drivel.

She tuned the sorcerer out and instead attempted to drill into the young lord’s mind through sheer force of will. Their eyes met, striking violet and bright blue, and she glared harder.

To her surprise, he looked back with quiet sorrow. Interesting—not the spoiled brat she expected, perhaps? Whatever the reason, he certainly seemed to be trying his hardest to beg her forgiveness with only his eyes.

When he saw none forthcoming, he looked away in shame. Good.

“…and now, with this dagger, I bind thee together…” filtered into her awareness—a definite departure from the usual rites. She wracked her brain for any ritual she’d heard of that demanded such an ornate dagger as this one.

Only one came to mind—a spell to transfer power, usually only done in the direst of situations. It required a blood sacrifice, for one, and no mage would ever willingly sacrifice their Chaos. If she was right, the ritual the sorcerer was about to perform would give Julian complete control over her power for the rest of his days, as well as to his progeny for the rest of theirs. She would never regain it as long as his bloodline lived.

Her body turned, holding out a wrist, and Julian did the same. _Fuck._ The sorcerer deftly flicked across Julian’s wrist first, blood welling to the surface instantly. He sucked in a breath, but didn’t move, and the sorcerer raised the dagger to do the same to her. _No._

 _No,_ she screamed in her mind, _never again._ After that fateful first night at Aretuza, she had promised herself, never again would a blade kiss her wrists. Nor would she _ever_ give them the satisfaction of leashing a sorceress of Aretuza.

She took everything she had and _wrenched_ at the sorcerer’s control, throwing her entire soul into it. She felt it bend, and buckle, and then _break_ under the force of her fury. She screamed, a feral thing, all of her bottled up power released in one blinding burst.

As she did, she felt three things happen simultaneously—Julian grabbed her arm, shouting something she couldn’t hear; the sorcerer stumbled into her, dagger slicing across her arm; and a shockwave of Chaos exploded outwards.

She fell to the ground in its wake, dizzy, but determined to maintain her control. She scrambled up, grabbing the dagger as she spotted it lying in the grass, and stood to see that the gardens had been decimated in her wake.

The guests all lay in various configurations upon the ground, unconscious, including the king himself. The sorcerer was nowhere to be found—at first, she thought that he must have portaled out. Then she saw the pile of ashes on the altar, rapidly being scattered by the wind. She smiled, a wicked thing.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement—Julian was awake, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting around.

She needed to get out of here, fast, and with no witnesses or memory of her being here, ideally. She could feel that her reserves were almost depleted in the wake of the blast, but she summoned everything she could and aimed it at the prince.

Nothing happened. She tried again—to wipe his memory, to knock him unconscious, anything—but there was nothing. She had access to her Chaos, and nothing was blocking it, but it was like it wasn’t answering her call.

 _Fuck._ The binding ritual had been completed. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

His eyes focused on her, bleary, but as they resolved, they widened, and he scrambled backwards.

“Fuck,” he whispered, gaze trained on the dagger she still carried.

There was one easy way out of this—she could just kill him. It would be easy, one simple swipe across his neck, and he would cease breathing forever, would release control back to her. It was so simple.

Standing there, dagger raised as if in a trance, staring deep into his soulful blue eyes, it didn’t feel simple.

It was just—the way he looked at her, with so much sadness, so much regret in his eyes—but not pity, never pity. And there was a quiet acceptance there, too, as if he’d taken one look at her holding the dagger and resigned himself to death.

And there, buried beneath it all, a tiny shred of… happiness? Longing, almost, a _longing_ for release. “Go ahead,” he said quietly, tilting back his head to give her better access to his neck. “I understand. I’m sorry.” And she knew that voice—this was Jaskier, the man from the dungeons.

She couldn’t do it. Damn her, but she couldn’t go through with it, even as she knew it meant giving up her Chaos. But she was no killer, not of those who didn’t deserve it, and the man before her was just as much of a victim as she was.

She faltered and dropped the dagger, swaying in place. Jaskier looked up at her with concern in those adorable blue eyes—oh, she was definitely delusional with blood loss and exhaustion, if she was describing them like that.

Her knees hit the ground with a muted _thump,_ and try as she might, she couldn’t stand back up again. Fuck. This was it—she was a prisoner forever. She slumped to the side, hair cascading into her face, but couldn’t bring herself to care.

As her vision darkened, she spared one last thought—she hoped Jaskier would be kind, that was all. She hoped that he wouldn’t take advantage of her in her weakened state—except who was she kidding? Nobles were all the same. She wouldn’t dare to hope that he would be different.

* * *

The first thing that came to her awareness was the smell. It was pork, roasting over a fire, something she had often smelled in her childhood. It didn’t bring back fond memories, but it did bring confusion. She blinked open her eyes, which were heavy with sleep, and saw that she was tucked in a small bed, staring up at a thatched roof, rather than the opulent ceiling of the palace.

The sheets, too, weren’t of the quality she had come to expect from the palace. Where the fuck was she?

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, swaying for a moment as her head throbbed. Right. Still magically exhausted, then, and probably woozy from blood loss as well. She glanced down at her arm and was surprised to see that it had been bandaged—inexpertly, but securely.

She looked around the room she had found herself in—it was small, one bed in the corner and a table with chairs opposite, with a fireplace set into the wall across from the door.

At that moment, the door opened, and in came Jaskier, juggling two plates and two cups in his arms. He somehow managed to set everything on the table without dropping it, and the smell coming off the plates—oh, it was heavenly. She hadn’t had anything to eat for at least two days, possibly more, she realized, and she was famished.

Jaskier still hadn’t noticed that she was awake; she cleared her throat, and privately delighted in the way he jumped. “Oh! You’re awake!” he said, happy, but with a trace of nerves in his voice.

“Where are we?” she demanded.

“Please don’t be mad, but—look, I had to get us out of there, and I’m sorry, but I barely had time to grab a few essentials before leaving, and I had to leave most of your stuff behind, because poor Buttercup could only hold so much weight—” he rambled, none of which was an answer to her question.

“Jaskier,” she cut him off. “I don’t care. _Where are we?”_

“Lettenhove,” he stammered, blushing. “An inn in Lettenhove.”

“Lettenhove? But it’s an absolute shithole,” she said incredulously.

“I know, but listen,” Jaskier replied, holding out his hands. “Nobody will think to look for us here. Plus, it’s as far as I could get with you unconscious on horseback,” he pleaded.

She pursed her lips. It made sense. “But why bring me here? Why leave the palace at all?”

He bit his lip. “I mean, I assumed you wanted to leave,” he said evasively. She gave him a hard look, and he threw his hands up. “Alright, yes! I ran away!”

“But _why?_ ” she asked, persistent. “You’re a prince, with all the power of a sorceress tied to you. You could literally do anything you wanted.”

He sobered. “I would never.”

She shook her head in disgust. “Of course you would. You’re a noble, of course you would. You’re all the same, just power-hungry men frantically grabbing at every bit of good in the world they can and squeezing out every last drop.”

He sat down heavily in the chair, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m not like that. Gods, I hope I never am. And—and I know you probably don’t believe me— _I_ wouldn’t believe me, not after that shitshow. But please,” and he looked up at her, entreating, “trust me when I say that I would do anything to break this bond.”

“You could have everything,” she said softly, weighing her words carefully. “But you don’t want it.”

He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t, and _especially_ not at the cost of your freedom.”

And despite it all, she found herself _believing_ him when he said that. Not knowing what to do with that, she changed directions. “Is that pork I smell? I’m fucking starving.”

He seemed relieved to change the subject. “Yes! Here you go,” he said, grabbing a plate and passing it to her.

She dug in, and the two of them ate in silence for some time. When their appetites were sated, he cleared his throat.

“So. About the bond, I was thinking…”

Her hackles instantly rose. Here it was—he would say how it was necessary for him to use it, to harness her Chaos for the greater good.

“I think we need a witcher,” he said, rubbing his fingers together in a nervous tic. “I’ve heard they can break any curse, and this is similar enough, right?”

“This is ancient magic, princeling,” she said, just to annoy him.

It worked; he flinched. “That’s another thing—I had to be discreet when booking a room, so listen, should anyone ask, I’m a traveling bard and I hired you for protection, alright?”

She rolled her eyes. “As if anyone would believe that.”

“No, really, I’ve got the lute and everything,” he insisted, pointing to an instrument case propped in the corner. “But anyways, what do you think?”

He looked at her earnestly, seeming to actually want her opinion. It was unexpected, but… nice.

“Well, it’s not as if we can go to the Brotherhood,” she said slowly. “So I suppose a witcher might be our best bet.”

“Perfect,” he said, smiling brightly, and she couldn’t help how her heart melted a bit at the sight. He was just so endearing, like a puppy that managed to annoy you into loving it.

“Not perfect,” she corrected, “but it’s a start, at least.”

“All good stories have to start somewhere, I suppose,” he conceded, leaping to his feet. “If you’re ready to go, the open road awaits us.” He held out a hand with a flourish, bowing low.

She took it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it! also, find me on tumblr [here](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com)!


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